- by: Herman Melville (1819-1891)
KIMMING lightly, wheeling still,The swallows fly lowOver the field in clouded days,The forest-field of Shiloh--Over the field where April rainSolaced the parched one stretched in painThrough the pause of nightThat followed the Sunday fightAround the church of Shiloh--The church so lone, the log-built one,That echoed to many a parting groanAnd natural prayerOf dying foemen mingled there--Foemen at morn, but friends at eve--Fame or country least their care:(What like a bullet can undeceive!)But now they lie low,While over them the swallows skimAnd all is hushed at Shiloh.